


The Little Things

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1385173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short little drabble</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Things

Enjolras presses a kiss to the top of Grantaire’s head as he walks into the kitchen, eyes puffy with sleep, reaching for a mug and the coffee pot with the crack in its side. They had argued about replacing it, eventually coming to the conclusion that it would be foolish to throw something away because of a minor imperfection. 

He sits and makes a grab at the piece of toast on Grantaire’s plate. Blue eyes meet brown; corners of lips turn upward. Grantaire pushes his plate across the table.

There’s a bookshelf on one wall in the living room, organized in a way that only Enjolras understands. Most of the pages in the books are worn from use, and many have little annotations scribbled in the margins in blue or black ink, occasionally red. Enjolras will often select a book from the shelf to find Grantaire’s familiar scrawl within; he sighs, but there is always a small smile on his face. 

On the opposite side of a room, there is an easel tucked away in the corner by the window. Blank canvasses and works-in-progress lean against the wall next to a small cabinet stocked full of paint and paintbrushes and palettes, pens and coloured pencils, sheets of paper and sketchbooks. 

Grantaire will work on his paintings for hours at a time on the good days, pausing to stare down at the street as he loses himself in thought. Enjolras will read in the armchair a few feet away. Silence settles around them like an old friend.

They fight, and loudly, harsh words carelessly thrown back and forth; words that wound, leaving bottom lips trembling, hearts racing. There is always a sense of dread as they wonder if this could be the end. 

It never is. 

Somehow they always find their way back to the bed they share. Quiet apologies are uttered in the darkness; their embraces tender and soft.

They lie in bed, wrapped around one another, warm breath dancing across skin and moonlight filtering in through the window, content and relieved as their eyelids grow heavy and they drift off to sleep.


End file.
